The ground beneath our feet is firm, like the resolve of Riddari Drysdale. He is the dancer to the sword song, the feeder of ravens, the herald of the blizzard of Hrist, and the name on the tongue of the norns as the bringer of the long sleep to all foes this day.

Gathered here on this noble hill are many who deem themselves worthy of the crown of Ansteorra and would see themselves as successor to our glorious and exalted ring-giver, Gabriel. Riddari Drysdale comes before your impressive majesty this day to prove he has the courage of the One-Handed, the strength of the Anvil-Striker, the fortitude of the Frozen-Storm, and the prowess of the All-Father. He will honor you, his king, with blood and victory.

Special Occasions

Prose

2016-07-08

Unavailable

Unavailable

Style: dróttkvœtt
Written On: 2016-01-15

Bear witness and behold

The Bea﻿st of Mann comes forth

To reap the field of foes

And follow Creppin’s crownSvarta Dreki’s sword sonSwept across the kingdomHere the talon holder Hews the unfit forest﻿Awe at the Golden Eagle’sUnparalleled swiftnessLoud, echoes his sword songSung like the Storm God’s callThe Spinner’s MerkismannMade Creppin’s StallariAnd quick his steel serpentsStrike down the unworthyPretenders, ImpostorsPity them their fate, forRiddari Drysdale standsDefiant of their claims

Throughout Ansteorra and the Known World there are names spoken with whispered reverence. Queens and kings, knights, dons, pelicans, laurels, lions and legends. Men and women that embody the dream; whose valor and prowess on the field of battle, extraordinary works of arts and science, or heroic deeds of sacrifice and service have etched forever their legacy in our storied history. A name, a single name, bearing such significance that its mention can fan the embers of a waning dream or kindle the fire of a new one.

Riccardo, Rowan, Ragnar, Pendaran, Iago, Ivarr, and you. Each and every one of you has within you a greatness awaiting release. Believe and accept that you are incredible! Let the flame of your dream ignite in those around you so that together our light will shine as a beacon to those still lost in the darkness! Embrace your excellence and let your name be spoken with whispered reverence.

Dawn broke in the Bear LandsBringing the gods themselvesGroups in the grass thereGathered to heed the call

Freya's resplendent formFueled courage in the menThe brave took up their bladesThe blood song to be sung

Feyr himself took the fieldFighting amongst the mortalsStorm-god looked on in spelndor

Staking claim to heroes

Odin was elusiveInstead his raven's sentFrom their noble Fort they

Flew to join us this day

The Jotnär came yellingYielded to the younglingsGlory over giants

Gained great fame for the cubs

The skulls of the slain wereSpangled by great artistsThe finest of them filledThe full length of Hel's Hall

Then did Loki's luck findLatch upon both my eyesBy hex or curse laid lowLeft afternoon untold

By Madylyne's magicMy eyes gained sight againIn time to see the sceneStephen Crowley revered

Remembering RagnarAnd raising Crowley's fameGifts of the great skald wereGiven to him this day

Vast the feast that came forthFeeding all abundantVanquished hunger and voiceVictory in silence

Baron and BaronessBrought honors to their folkWe joined in the wonderWith words both new and old

The Great Horn then heftedHorns and cups all now filledStories of the Lion SkaldSpun through the starry night

All claimed by drink or dayDestined to fade awayWe slept and when we wokeWe were still left dreaming

Poems

dróttkvœtt

2015-10-17

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Style: dróttkvœtt
Written On: 2015-10-16

People speak of spirits

Spinning tales of legend

Warrior brave from Bear Lands

Brought song of Battleskald

He spoke wise, the words of

War Counsel to his king

Sigmund's glories spoken

Song of Reavers echoes

Stories stand time's test with

Tales told of Dragon's Gold

Bragi favored bold skald

and Brought him to Valhalla

There he heralds heroes

Honored friends yet to come

Revel and remember

Ragnar the Lion-Skald

Poems

dróttkvœtt

2015-10-16

Unavailable

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Style: dróttkvœtt
Written On: 2015-07-13

Horn I raise is heavy

Heart is also weighted

Sad and joyful stories

Songs to hero now passed

Fortune seemed to favor

Friend that lived so fiercely

Pennsic Point is plaintive

Pouring mournful mead toasts

Peerless without Peerage

Present ever in recall

Countess' father, friend and

Farer, no more travels

Hearken Aesir! Hear us

Herald his arrival

Voices shouting “Vivat

Valhalla's Oxhandler!”

Poems

dróttkvœtt

2015-07-13

Unavailable

Unavailable

Style: Prose
Written On: 2015-10-31

A trotter is the foot of a pig, it was also fitting name for a squat little boy with a head too round for his body. He lived on a pig farm and was the son of a butcher, who was the son of a butcher who was the son of the butcher that started the pig farm. He could hear the stinging jeers of the other children in the village as they danced and played while he hoofed his way up the hill to his father's shop.

“Trot away piggy!”

“We'll invite you when we go play in the mud!”

“What a boar!”

They never did... invite him to play that is. He smelled of pig, day and night as if he too slept in the slop and filth. It permeated the pores of his pink flesh; he couldn't tell, but the other children wouldn't let him forget.

His breeches bore the badge of the butcher, as did his shoes. The apron helped, but the faint coppery stench and crusted brown streaks of blood stayed with him every day when he went home.

At work, his father would never take a risk with the choicest cuts, those needed a master's hand and Trotter was just an apprentice. He was made to work with the cheeks and jowls, intestines, and of course, the trotters (no part of the pig was wasted in this shop).

It was Trotters job to slaughter the pig in the back and bring it through for his father. He would pretend it was Seamus, the biggest kid in the village and the loudest with his barbs. Some days it was Michael, who quietly egged on the other kids. But mostly, it was Claire and the look of revulsion she never thought to be kind enough to conceal when he passed.

A methodical and vicarious affair. The squeals. The squirming. The squeals. The thrashing against the bindings. The squeals. The knowing look of fear in Claire's... in the pig's eyes.

As the children grew older, the loathing in their voices and the malicious mistreatment of the maligned young man magnified. Jeers turned to shoves, words became fists, revulsion was a stick used to jab him as he tried to pick himself off the ground.

The squeals weren't enough. The pigs were herded, locked in a chute, and bound before butchering. Trotter needed more, something that would require work, something to occupy the places in his mind that dwelt on painful reminders in his flesh. No one missed the strays, save his father, but he was glad to see the whining little beggars gone from the proximity of his shop.

A bagged cat could be taken away and given the proper attention it deserved; as could a small dog. But, it wasn't long before the streets were clear and Trotter was left with the lingering lilt of loathing laughter in his little pink ears.

That year, Trotter received the greatest gift he'd ever been given for his birthday. It was a damp Saturday in October and his father had given him leave to gather hazelnuts, for his mother, from a grove outside the village. These moments of solitude were normally filled with the echoing silence that continued to scream the curses of his peers. But not today. Today, the scream was much different. Today, it was a sobbing voice, deep, yet pitched awkwardly through puberty and pain. Trotter inched carefully closer, lest this be another ruse to lure him to a ruthless beating.

He'd fallen prey to that one before, Claire laying on the ground, clutching an ankle, asking for help and soon as Trotter was close enough to reach out his hand, she slapped it away and the little huns descended upon him as if he were the gates of Rome.

Oh, but this time, it was no ruse. Trotter could see the blood and bone protruding from Seamus's injured leg. His horse had thrown him, and he'd taken the fall all wrong. Trotter, emptied the gathered hazelnuts from his cloth sack and began to fold it along its length. He inched closer, cautious, reluctant, frightened and exhilarated. He knelt beside Seamus, cloth sack readied in his hands and looked deeply in the battered boy's brindled brown eyes. He saw a genuine thankfulness there, which made their shift to uncomprehending panic like sweetest clover honey when he used the sack to gag him. He struggled and fought, but every time Seamus's superior strength pried at Trotter's hands and the cloth, Trotter's foot kicked at his exposed bone. He succumbed to the abyss of unconsciousness after the third kick.

Trotter spent the entire afternoon with Seamus, an apprentice was becoming a master that day; a true test of his skill, he began with the trotters. Teeth were tossed to chatter in the creek, hair flitted away in the breeze and the pigs ate well that night.

Songs and Stories

Prose

2015-10-31

Unavailable

Unavailable

Style: Mixed
Written On: 2017-10-06

Hail the King! Hail the Queen!

Hail the Lords and Ladies!

Hail the Gods! Hail the Goddesses!

Hail the Honored Sable Star!

Look upon this day with favored eyes

And good fortune for all that witness.

Listen closely Lords and

Ladies to recounts of

Virtues of the völva,

Vigdis the seiðr-spinner!

Well she kens the wool-ways

Weaving brilliant patterns

No cords from any creature

Could she not turn spiral

Ware to any warrior

Wanting easy spoils for

Ash is bent to bring the

Bow-mother’s hail of reeds!

Mother of two talented

Talon-storms, Jurgen and Hilda,

Now does Danr’s wife near

Knowing love surrounds her

Twice belted to bay-wreathed,

Beatrix and The SpinnerVigdis held her Vigil and Vaunted wisdom garnered